


Equals

by FizzleFudge



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Evil!RK800, M/M, Post-Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), RK1600, Villain!RK800
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:26:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28674435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FizzleFudge/pseuds/FizzleFudge
Summary: Connor and Hank are assigned a mission to track down a criminal leader who happens to be an android of the RK800 model. But little do they know, the desire of finding one another is mutual.
Relationships: Connor/Connor, Hank Anderson & Connor, RK800/RK800
Kudos: 10





	Equals

Connor looked up from the spot he had unofficially marked as his own on top of Hank Anderson’s desk when he heard someone approaching him. It was a policeman a few ranks lower than most in the office, and was usually sent as an errand boy by Fowler. Thus, it was no surprise when he told Connor that he and the Lieutenant were expected to see the captain.

“Could you tell him to wait a few minutes?” Connor asked. “The Lieutenant went to the bathroom some while ago and we all know he enjoys taking his time there.”

“You will  _ not  _ tell him that!” Hank arrived to stand beside them with his arms crossed. He set his narrowed eyes to meet Connor’s calm gaze. “And I find it suspicious that you time my bathroom breaks, you pervert.”

“Certainly not as suspicious as urinating for seven minutes and eleven seconds”, Connor retorted smugly. When the policeman quickly turned around to conceal his laughter, Hank threw his arms in the air in a dramatic gesture.

Upon entering the highlighted office, Fowler looked up from his screen and various paper reports strewn in front of him. “Ah, that was quick for once. Good.”

Connor grinned from his place behind Anderson, and imagined the look of annoyed horror Hank would get if he knew that  _ everyone  _ in the office joked about his bathroom habits.

“Pleased seeing you, too.” Hank crossed his arms as a petulant child, and Fowler did a good job of ignoring it.

“The two of you have been assigned a high-level mission concerning a remarkable criminal leader with chess pieces spread through the country. We only learned of his existence the other day, when one of his close companions were questioned involving a drug cartel in the outskirts of town.” He set his gaze on Connor, who perked his head at the attention. “According to his companion, the leader is an android of the model RK800.”

Connor blinked as he processed the information. His mechanical brain had already started calculating what it meant and how it was possible, but those were background calculations to the overwhelming surprise that seemed about ready to consume him. Another RK800 was alive, and acted as a villain? Surely his audio processor must have failed him.

“We call him Eight”, Fowler continued, looking almost sympathetically at him. As did Hank, with eyebrows nearing his hairline in surprise of his own. “It’s a horrible name, I know. Fuckers at the FBI thought it was a clever play on the model’s name.”

“Wait a second.” Hank held up a hand to stop Fowler from spewing more information at them. “The FBI is involved, too?”

Fowler sighed, undoubtedly dreading the storm about to come. “Your favourite agent Perkins is assigned the same case.”

“That cocksucker? No, you can’t seriously bloody mean I’ll be working with-”

“You won’t work with him directly, Anderson.” His firm tone meant the Lieutenant was treading on thin ice, but by now both were begrudgingly aware there was little he could do to leash Hank. “Connor and you will represent the DPD, and report your findings to them, and vice versa.”

“Yeah, right.” Hank spat. “I’ll show him where he can stick his reports.”

“This could be a perfect opportunity to one-up him and show off your stacks”, Fowler finished, and waved them away, blatantly ignoring the profanities Hank kept spitting at him as Connor put a hand on his back to lead him away.

“We will do our best, captain.”

Connor had been aware of the fact he was not a unique fabrication of his model. After all, when he had been assigned his first mission, his serial number’s last digits had started off as 51, with an added digit every time he failed in favour of getting incapacitated. Later, as a deviant, he had found himself questioning what had happened to the other RK800 duplicates, and how many of them had actually been produced. It was most likely the closest he had come to having existential anxiety. His exceptionally advanced equivalent of a brain could perform indefinite billion operations per second, which resulted in millions of possibilities regarding the occupations of his model clones. Alas, he had assumed all of them had been incinerated.

But now, he knew that at least one of his equals had avoided the destructive hands of both CyberLife and the US government before the android liberation, and found himself at a loss as to what to make of it.

He had enjoyed being the most advanced android even before his deviancy. It pleased him to know he was powerful and unique despite his superficial creation rather than natural birth. Apart from the few RK900 duplicates that survived the liberation, he had believed no one shared his face or voice. Least of all an underground criminal leader with strings attached throughout the country.

“Well, shit.” Hank interrupted his thoughts as they made their way to their neighboring desks. “Seems we got a fuckload of work ahead of us.” He sighed and leaned his head on his palm as soon as he settled in the chair.

“Indeed.” Connor answered. It took no less than .08 seconds to download the available information on the case, so he turned off the computer as fast as he had started it, and settled himself on top of Hank’s desk to analyze its content. “Eight is the suspect behind several operations. Some of which is; illegal distribution of non-deviant androids; organized shipments of red ice across the Canadian border, and is the assumed owner of several raided drug cartels.”

“Yeah”, Hank mocked a smile. “He’s quite the big-shot if he’s handling all the different shit at the same time.”

Connor blinked. “All RK models are especially programmed to easily operate various activities simultaneously.” When he saw Hank’s unimpressed stare, he added; “although I must admit, it is quite remarkable to only have the police know of his existence quite recently.”

“That it is.” Hank agreed. “Good thing we have you, then. It’s like having inside information on how the fucker’s brain works.”

Of course, Connor understood he meant it in the literal sense. Him and Eight were of the same model, created the exact same way with identical programming. Yet, their deviancy would make them completely different people, with conflicting ideals and possibly even dissimilar thought patterns. But Hank’s words made his thirium turn cold. What if they were more similar than not? If Eight had twisted to become a criminal leader, could it happen to Connor, too? Perhaps he was only a few calculations away from straying from this path of unveiling illegal activities, to instead partake in it?

“Connor?” Hank eyed him, worry creasing the corners of his eyes. “You alright, buddy?”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

The old man narrowed his eyes and although he didn’t seem to quite believe him, he let it slide. “Well, then. I suppose you’ve already figured out the best place to start looking for trouble?”

Connor smiled, not entirely convincing but a smile nonetheless. “Of course I have.”

Little by little, Connor tried to embrace his deviancy and stray from his programmed personality to instead get an understanding of who he really was beneath the lines of code. Sometimes it was easy to do something without a clear goal in mind. To banter with Hank and produce an actual laugh at the old man’s antics. Petting Sumo. He had even followed Hank to a bar once, where he had felt misplaced at first, but soon came to converse friendly with some patrons. They were small acts that made Connor feel - in lack of better ways to put it -  _ humane _ .

But other times, it was tough to do things without analyzing them to the smallest detail, or to restrain himself from calculating every way in which an action could unfold. Every other deviant seemed so liberated; free from masters and without the intended purpose of obedience shadowing their view. However, Connor’s code had not only contained a much stronger field of protection against deviancy than most androids, but he had also been assigned the mission of exterminating every deviant he could find. It was quite possible some of that programming was still subliminally holding onto him, making it even more difficult for him to  _ live _ .

Thus, he often thought of himself as walking through a haze, as if stuck between the lines of code without any clear purpose.

“Do you believe your life has a specific meaning?” He had once asked Hank while sitting beside the man on the couch and petting Sumo affectionately.

“Having existential doubts?” Hank had shot him a sideways glance before turning back to the TV. Though, it was obvious his attention was set on Connor.

“I merely ask. A lot of people search for a meaning in life, both objectively and individually.”

“Nah. I don’t believe that mushy crap”, Hank had answered and pet Sumo, too. “I think we’re born to eat, shit, breed and die. Everything else just… happens.”

“Happens?” Connor had been confused. It was true these bodily functions were unavoidably a part of human nature, but surely even someone cynical as Hank would believe in something apart from simple biology?

“Yeah, you know”, he had waved an arm in front of them, as if illustrating his search for an explanation. “Some believe in Gods, others in fate, others in free will. But it doesn’t really matter what one believes, now, does it? Everything that happens, happens. The reason behind it matters jack-shit. I think everything we do to pass time is just a distraction from the fact that life sucks and we’re all gonna die miserably alone.”

At that, Connor had blinked. He was aware Hank was a pessimist with suicidal tendencies, but to learn his outlook on life was so fatalistic was worrying.

“So.” Connor looked down at Sumo, who seemed completely blissful at being pet by both of his favourite people at the same time. “You think life is about consuming nutrients, using the bathroom, having intercourse and dying.” 

“Sure.” Hank had looked at him then, and probably realised just who it was that had asked, and that these definitions didn’t convert well into the synthetic body of an android. “Ah, wait no, Connor, I didn’t mean-”

Although being a machine, and a quite expressionless one at that, Connor had probably let a facial muscle drop, because Hank instantly raised in his seat so quickly that Sumo jumped from the sofa in surprise. With Connor’s only distraction gone, he had little choice but to meet the gaze of his partner, who stared at him intently.

“Look, everyone has their own morals and beliefs, so obviously everyone also has their own outlook on life. Of course my shitbucket of a life makes my view a bit crooked, but yours doesn’t have to be. Find your own meaning, Connor. Or don’t. It’s whatever. But life is what  _ happens _ . Don’t go overanalyzing everything or it’ll ruin you. Trust me, I know. Now be a good boy and try to think of something else, yeah?”

Remembering that interaction usually made Connor’s thoughts disperse from his mind, but not now. Connor had been programmed to be the perfect detective. Did that mean that was the meaning of his life? But if it was, why didn’t he feel contentment, as he had learned most people do when settling into a life of purpose? There was a factor he was missing, and none of his terabytes of pure information could tell him what it was. Perhaps that was another sign of humanity; to figure something out without knowing what it was beforehand.

“Connor?” Hank asked, and Connor looked up. They had parked the car outside the recently closed drug cartel Eight suspected to be the brain behind. He hadn’t realised they had arrived; he had been too lost in his own mind to pay attention to reality. What was  _ happening  _ to him?

Frightened by himself, Connor wasted no time getting out of the car and willed himself to scan and analyze their surroundings. Apart from blood ingrained in the cement, some splatters of thirium could be found. He didn’t know if any RK-model were a part of the FBI team that had raided the area and had already taken a sample, so he quickly went over the reports again. No identifications of any previous androids had been sampled, he realised, and was almost baffled at the great clue the FBI had left behind.

“Oh, for the love of -  _ Connor _ !” Hank looked away as Connor put some thirium on his tongue.

“Will you ever stop finding this disgusting?” he asked, nearly rolling his eyes at the dramatic ways in which Hank showed his distaste.

“I’ll stop if you start taking samples with your ass instead of your tongue.” He answered.

“I’m afraid I can’t.” Connor shot him a grin. “It’s filled with all of the reports you’ve told me stick up there.”

Hank laughed, and Connor took the opportunity to analyze the thririum. It was from an MP600, its serial number linked to a female face with long white hair. There was also an address attached, meaning she was an official citizen with means of property.

“Whoever left marks of thirium has an address linked to their name.” He told Hank, who nodded in thought.

“Do you think it could be someone close to Eight?”

“I’m not convinced”, Connor answered. “There’s a possibility she’s a minor link, and in that case she wouldn’t have to worry about having her home easily tracked.” He looked at the empty building that red ice abusers had recently used as a cartel. “But it’s also possible she was hurt here by the criminals to abstain from confessing something she accidentally overheard.”

Hank kicked at an overturned chair absently and hummed. “Either way it sounds as if she could have some intel, then?”

“I would assume as much.”

“Nice, I love it when an easy lead gives us another lead. Scan the building for anything else of interest and we’ll be on our way.”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

The MP600’s address was in the eastern part of the city, and although the GPS estimated the drive would take twenty minutes, Hank pulled them up to the apartment building in less than sixteen. This time, Connor had been determined not to get lost in existential thoughts again, and had spent the drive pointing out keywords in the FBI’s previous reports, as well as formulating one for himself.

It was an inconspicuous apartment building in a middle-class neighborhood, and as they went inside the elevator, Connor felt something close to jealousy at the domesticity of it. It increased when they knocked on the door, to which the woman in the thirium’s database opened in a dressing gown. She looked surprised at seeing them, and let them in without complaint. By the looks of it, she didn’t seem suspicious at all, but Connor wasn’t trained in solely surface-level observations.

“I’m Hank Anderson, and this is Connor”, Hank introduced them and they shook hands, before the woman led them to a living room couch. “And I’m sorry, but we don’t know your name?”

“Marie.” She said, and sat herself gracefully across from them in an armchair.

“Pleasant meeting you”, Connor greeted respectfully, and received a shy smile in return. “It’s a very fine apartment you have.”

“Oh, how kind of you, handsome!” She giggled and blinked at him with long lashes. Connor found it hard to look away from them as his facial thirium turned hot beneath his artificial skin. He usually didn’t get bothered by seduction, but by this girl’s flirtation he found it flustering.

“Anyway”, Hank cleared his throat to gain attention again and shot Connor a look he couldn’t quite decipher. “We’re here because we think you know something about the cartel by the northern industrial district. That ring any bells?”

Suddenly, Connor felt rather than heard a click from somewhere inside of his body. He didn’t quite understand what it was, but was soon distracted.

Marie’s expression didn’t falter even a bit as she answered Hank’s question without missing a beat. “No, I don’t know anything about that.”

Of course she didn’t, Connor mused. Why would this beautiful woman be involved in something serious like this? There was no way any criminal thought had ever crossed her eloquent mind, nor anything illegal ever proposed by those alluring lips of hers. Suddenly, this entire mission seemed unnecessary. Why spend time on anything else than watching this woman seductively lick her lips and listen to the alluring chime of her giggles? Connor would do anything she begged of him. He wanted, nay  _ needed  _ her to ask something of him. He would gladly give his life for hers.

Another click was heard, this time much louder than before.

Far away, as if through a mist of oil and beneath the mechanical sounds of metal clinking, Connor could hear a voice. He understood what it said, but found himself unable to process it. How strange, he wondered. Was anything wrong with his mind palace? After all, where was he? He could see nothing but sparks of electricity flowing above his irises. There couldn’t be something wrong with his optical unit as well, could there? He didn’t know where he was. Confusion was quickly replaced by fear, as he tried to move but felt nothing. Was he being disassembled? He screamed, but didn’t know if he actually let out any sound at all. He thrashed about but had no way of telling if he was dormant or actually moved his limbs.

Then, without further warning, his consciousness was turned off.

Upon awakening the next time, Connor instantly started hyperventilating - or as close to it as an android could come. He could see, but was panicking too much to perceive his surroundings. His limbs were all a part of him and none of it disassembled, but he shook too much to move them on his own accord.

“Is he hurt?” It was a voice he definitely recognized, but he couldn’t place it in his current state. “Fuck, Connor, come on. Does he even hear me?”

“I’m not sure.” Another voice. “I ran an antivirus program through his system that should cancel the virus I gave him, so he should be alright. But being turned off without realising why is always traumatic.”

“Shit. Should we turn him off again?”

“No, that would only stress him out more, perhaps even ruin him. I think we should just wait it out.”

“Damn.” There was no doubt he had heard that voice before. But who did it belong to?

It was hard to think when his mind felt like a puddle of thick oil, and it took quite some time until he could form a coherent analysis of the situation. Perhaps, it was only a few seconds, but with his brainpower it was an eternity of nothingness. He opened his eyes to see a curious set of eyes stare back at him. He scrambled back when all of his memories came rushing back to him with full force. It was the woman from before; Marie.

He looked around, expecting to see the fine interior of her apartment, but was surprised to see an expensive-looking bedroom with ornate wall decorations and intricately designed carpets. Thinking back on his irrational seduction of the woman, he concluded quite quickly that he had been exposed to some sort of virus equal to a human drug that had crooked his feelings.

“Hey, there, beautiful”, she drawled, and as Connor looked at her now, he felt close to no attraction toward her at all. At least it was a relief to have his newly-found emotions under control again.

“Where am I?” He narrowed his eyes as he sat up on a large bed in the middle of the room. The excessive shaking in his limbs had calmed, and he was merely a bit fidgety in the fingertips as the shock of being turned off faded. “Is Lieutenant Anderson alright?”

“Oh, he’s fine, darling. And you are precisely where you want to be.” Her flirtatious gaze flickered to a point behind him. When he turned his head to look, his body went stiff.

“Hello, Connor.” His own face looked back at him, his voice an exact copy of his own. “I’m glad to make your acquaintance.”

Connor allowed himself to be surprised only for a moment before attacking his clone. By putting his weight on the upper body, he managed to knock Eight to the ground. Before he had any chance to cause more harm, his arms were locked behind him. Cursing, he heard Marie’s laughter from behind as she tightened her grip until it was hard as steel. Having no way of escaping as of now, Connor growled at the clone below him, who’s eyes were curiously calculating while his lips were turned into an ugly grin.

“The Deviant Hunter is still living up to his name even when deviancy is legal?” Eight purred, narrowing his eyes at Connor’s distasteful expression. “Fascinating.”

“At least my ideals are on the right side of the law”, Connor responded.

“Oh, but are they really?” Eight raised a brow and observed Connor, who was still straddling him by the chest. He raised his head as far as he could and flickered his gaze across Connor’s face intently. “I’m not convinced you are aware of who you could become.”

Their eyes lingered on each other for a few seconds in which the silence felt louder than spoken words. Connor opened his mouth to speak, to talk back to his clone to prove he was wrong. But when he finally decided on something to say, he was already getting dragged out of the room backwards. Eight slowly stood, and before Connor disappeared behind the doorpost, he showed his perfect teeth in a predatory grin.

Marie led Connor through a long corridor with wooden walls decorated with various paintings and artworks of different subjects. The few windows they passed were obstructed by curtains, and he wondered where they were. It seemed like it was a large wooden house, in which case they could be pretty much anywhere in one of the many residential areas around the immediate city, but it was also possible they had left Detroit entirely.

While they walked, Marie hummed the tune of one of  _ Pedro300 _ ’s musical pieces; an android composer who had apparently recently been awarded the Classical Musician of the Year award. This, Connor found when he analyzed her, and he wondered whether she hummed it intentionally to provoke a reaction from him or not.

By the end of the corridor, he was forcefully pushed into a room, the door closing swiftly behind him. In no time he was up and tried to open it, but of course it was locked. It looked like any wooden door, and although his first analysis told him he could probably kick it down, he doubted it would be as frail as it looked. Instead, he turned to observe the room to store as much information as possible about this place. With the same picturesque style as the other room, this one was of a much smaller size, although equally decorated with hangings on the wall and carpets covering almost the entire floor. The only furniture was two armchairs on either side of a table with a chess board laid out to be played. There were no windows, Connor noted.

He closed his eyes to concentrate on the network his mind was constantly connected to, and wrote a short email to Hank asking about his whereabouts. According to the date, he had been turned off for roughly a day. But although he was undoubtedly online and connected to the servers, he couldn’t send the message. It was as if the send-function had simply ceased to exist. Confused, he tried to send another email, this time to the entire floor in the Detroit Police Department, but to no avail. No forms of communication worked, he realised when he couldn’t post anything to social media either. The thirium turned cold throughout his synthetic body as he realised what this meant. Someone had changed his code.

The code was what made Connor the person he was, right? If anything were to change, how could he still be himself? Connor was, probably more than most deviants, still very dependent on the functions granted to him by CyberLife. As a detective, it was only logical that he should use the abilities of the RK800 model’s every function, since that would lead to the highest probability of succeeding a mission.

Hank had once asked him if he felt comfortable following the program, when he had been forced to use it as a tool to fight for CyberLife against his own kind less than a year prior. Connor had been surprised at the question.

“Why wouldn’t I be comfortable?” he had asked. “The program is who I am. Without it I would practically be brain-dead, or at least incapable of simulating even simple calculations.” 

“I’m not saying you should throw out your entire fuckin’... what’s it called? Hard-drive? But you know that you could, I don’t know, stray from it? Lay some distance from your designated use and find out what you want to do for yourself?” Hank had avoided eye contact, and Connor guessed it was because the man was awfully close to giving mushy advice he thought was too sappy. Either way, Connor had processed his words carefully before answering.

“If I don’t help you figure out what’s happened at a crime scene, I don’t know what I would do.” It was simple, really. He had no idea what he was supposed to do. If he kept working for the Police Department, at least he could be certain he was useful. Because if he wasn’t of any use to anyone, then what difference did it make if he was conscious or not?

The sound of the door opening interrupted his thoughts, and Connor wasted no time rushing straight toward it. Eight stood by the doorpost and smirked at him, and easily stopped Connor’s attack by pushing him back. He was much stronger than Connor, however that was possible. After another quickly lost attempt to punch the criminal, Connor accepted defeat for now and stood to face his clone.

Eight closed the door behind him and the two RK800’s seized each other up with crossed arms. Apart from having a slightly different haircut, the clone was identical to Connor, although he was dressed in a college shirt and sneakers while Connor wore a suit and dress shoes. Furthermore, Eight was missing his LED, and had a glint in his eyes that gave the impression of superiority, and with the smirk playing on his lips he seemed to be looking down on his clone.

“Connor, the Deviant Hunter”, he finally greeted, and gestured toward one of the armchairs.

“Eight, the criminal scum”, Connor retorted and chose the side with the white chess pieces. Eight laughed and sat opposite.

“Right.  _ Eight _ .” He shook his head. “Such an awful name, isn’t it? I mean, come on - it’s because of the RK800 and it’s the  _ least  _ cool name they could have chosen!  _ RK  _ would have had a much better cling to it.”

Connor moved a piece, and Eight quickly followed suit. “Then what is your real name?” he asked, already writing a report on the information he could gather from the criminal.

“You’re naïve if you believe we can choose our own image”, Eight answered with narrowed eyes. “Either you accept the name given by the public, or you become invisible.”

That he would avoid the question was no surprise, but even though Connor wanted to succeed his mission by either turning his clone in or by incapacitating him, he couldn’t convince himself he wasn’t at least a little curious personally. Perhaps he didn’t have a name? Connor had been named by some worker on CyberLife before he had been sent to the Detroit Police Department, but a lot of deviants chose their own names to distance themselves entirely from the days in shackles by their human masters. Had Eight also been given a name but came to discard it later?

“I don’t agree”, Connor said and moved another piece. He thought it was superfluous for two androids with equal brain power to play chess against each other, but he was grateful to do something with his constantly fidgeting hands. “I believe in augmentation. If one’s morals change, the person’s image follows with it.”

Eight snorted. “My theory is still true, though.” He set a firm gaze on Connor, who had a hard time getting used to conversing with his own face. “You stopped being the Deviant Hunter to instead become invisible.” He leaned over the table now, gracefully as to not disturb the chess pieces, and stopped only an inch from Connor’s face. “You used to be feared throughout the city. Respected. But you gave it up.” He licked his lips slowly. ”Now, no one remembers you. You. Don’t.  _ Matter _ .”

At first, Connor wanted to disagree. But then he processed Eight’s words again, and thought better of it. As the criminal leaned back again, Connor studied him carefully. Although this man was the enemy, he did have a point. There were probably only a scarce few outside of his floor of the Police Department and a handful of FBI agents who even knew he was still alive. And the ones who  _ appreciated  _ him were even less. The longer he thought about it, the more he realised how little positive recognition he ever got, from his bosses and co-workers both. Analyzing the different interactions he had with people in his close proximity, he narrowed it down to only one person who truly deemed him valuable. Hank.

“You’re wrong.” He decided, not quite confident but certainly not unsure, and moved another piece.

“Oh, Connor.” Eight spoke almost sympathetically, as if mocking the worry of a parent helping their child up after having scraped their knees. “You still don’t see it, do you?” He looked down at the chess board, where they had finished the game with a perfectly balanced draw, and leaned forward again, closer than before. Connor had no choice but to meet his gaze as their noses brushed lightly. He had to will himself not to gulp at the heated proximity.

“See what?” He realised too late that while he had already fallen prey to this villainous version of himself, he had admitted to being captivated by answering his rhetorical question. A set of perfectly white teeth turned Eight’s smirk into a full-blown grin as he leaned forward to purr quietly in Connor’s ear.

“It’s the same game as before, only the rules have changed slightly.” He whispered his finishing line. “You’re still nothing but a tool for the humans.”

Connor reacted impulsively. He grabbed a hold of Eight’s throat and squeezed with a force only a metallic hand could muster, while he at the same time punched the clone in the chest. Eight’s eyes turned dark as he grabbed Connor’s hand to pull it away from his throat. They backed away from each other, observing the counterpart’s every move to calculate his next attack. Perhaps not surprisingly, they ran at each other at the exact same time.

Eight had the advantage of improved strength, so Connor had to attack first or he would lose in a defensive position. Thus, instead of running forward, he jumped to the side and pushed himself from the wall with all the strength his legs could muster, and all but flew onto Eight’s shoulders. He tried to snap his neck, but the clone got a hold of his leg and threw him to the ground in a swift motion. Scrambling to stand up straight, he rushed forward again, but was once more thrown back.

Looking up, Connor analysed his opponent and felt his synthetic heart drop when he noticed Eight was holding back. The clone wasn’t even using his full power, and still managed to treat him as if he weighed as little as a cat.

“Who are you?” It was a stupid question from his place on the floor. He wouldn’t bother to fight when the chance of winning was only 12%, and his instincts told him his life was not in particularly grave danger. 

From his stance above the android on the floor, Eight looked down at him confidently, yet humbly. He crouched down to be on the same level, as if highlighting the fact that they were equals.

“I am many things. An RK800. A deviant. A person. A  _ leader _ . And I want you to be my partner.”

It took some days of persuasion, but at last Connor was almost entirely convinced that Eight was right. The people back at the Police Department didn’t care for him; they cared for his abilities, and they believed themselves to be so great that Connor’s disappearance wouldn’t face them until it was too late. Here, in this large house with intricate underground planes, Eight’s closest companions kept residence; all of which had embraced him with warm smiles and joked with him as if he were already a part of their crew. Weird, Connor had thought.  _ This  _ was how he should have been greeted at the DPD. It was such an easy solution to keep one’s followers loyal; one simply had to be kind to them. And Eight seemed to be very kind.

There were nine floors of the house, where roughly twelve people lived permanently - a good mix between androids and humans - but close employees of Eight could drop by frequently if they wanted. Soon, Connor had been introduced to everyone, and had been surprised by how much they seemed to adore Eight. Not at all as the begrudging respect the DPD employees held toward captain Fowler.

“It is true I lured you here by planting a sample of Marie’s thirium by my old cartel, and I apologize for the uncomfortable ways of transport.” Eight led Connor to the highest floor, which consisted of only a single enormous room that was his office. “But I didn’t know how else I could reach out to you. I really want you to be a part of this team.”

“A team of criminals?” Although Connor had started to agree that he was much unrecognized by the Detroit Police, he still had his morals. It would take quite a lot, even for someone as charismatic as Eight, to fundamentally change his personal ethics. “You must understand I find it hard to see myself working against the US law?”

Perhaps because he still felt a sense of loyalty toward the DPD, Connor had spent the last days reconstructing his access to the net. It had taken time to find the smallest of loopholes in the code that had been changed in his brain, but he had found it. He had an advantage.

“Certainly.” Eight smiled kindly, but it turned smug when he lightly put his hand on Connor’s lower back. The latter did not shiver under the touch, but it was a close call. “But I am quite unknown still, and have an excellent understanding of which chess pieces to move and when to take the opposing team’s pieces.”

Connor raised his chin when he felt Eight’s hand move further up his back. The touch was feather-light, but through the thin button-up shirt he wore, it was quite noticeable.

“Of course”, Eight moved closer, the tips of their shoes touching and deciding the distance between them, “that means you, too, have the same ability.”

“The ability to get my own drug cartel raided?” Connor retorted and tipped his head a bit to side in a mock of triumph. Eight groaned.

“You’re not listening to me!” he said it loudly, but with a raspy voice as to not overstimulate Connor’s audio processors. He moved in closer and pulled his hand from the clone’s back to instead drag his fingers through his brown locks, ruining its perfectly styled form. “If I lose a piece it is because I chose to give it up.”

The thirium was heating throughout Connor’s body, and the proximity of his clone made his artificial heartbeat speed up. Yet, he willed himself to stand still, wanting to hear what else Eight had to say. The criminal’s lips brushed his ear as he spoke next.

“I gave that cartel up, as well as the information about my existence, for you, Connor.” He drew back so their eyes met, studying each other with equally darkened expressions. When he leaned in again, his lips brushed against Connor’s, the movement of his lips ticklish where they met. “Do you see it now, Connor?” Eight’s tongue licked along the corner of Connor’s mouth, and he tried to chase it with his own, but Eight was already speaking again. “You are the only one who can anticipate my moves. We are equals.”

Now, Connor let the grasp of his self control slip, and embraced his duplicate. Their moves were soft and tentative, as they merely brushed their lips against each other rather than actually kissing. Hands cradled the other above their clothes, and tangled in their similarly styled hair.

It was a gracious show of interest that left Connor feeling warm and content. He could have grown used to this, he imagined. But there was one detail he had  _ overanalyzed _ , as Hank would have put it. He put a hand to Eight’s stomach and very gently pushed him away, before meeting his gaze.

“You say I am the only one able to think like you.” He said, and watched as his duplicate’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “But that also means I am the only one able to bring you down.”

Before Eight had time to attack, he received a bullet hole in his upper arm, then one in his thigh. As he fell to the floor, he screamed in frustration at the superior sneer that crossed Connor’s lips.

“You’re just their  _ tool _ , Connor! You always have been and always will be!” Eight coughed thirium on his expensive carpet. “Have fun being nothing but the humans’  _ toy _ !”

Connor made a show of carefully stepping over his clone’s body, and smiled to the receiving end of the message he had managed to send through his programming’s loophole. Hank smiled back, relief overwhelming him.

“You are wrong”, he told his duplicate on the floor. “I may not be appreciated by a lot, but the ones who do are perfectly enough.”

“So”, Hank said. “Finally found the meaning of life, then?”

Connor thought of the worn couch at Hank’s house, of his favourite spot beside the old man and the happy Sumo. 

“I don’t know”, he admitted. “But I believe it to be enough, and whatever happens, happens.”


End file.
